Soggy Socks and a Very Long Fall
by shalom378
Summary: "She didn't even have time to scream, as she was much pre-occupied with plummeting." Sherlock, Molly, Moriarty are on a bridge- who will fall? Who will not? (Sort of a Sherlolly)
1. Going

**Yay! More Sherlolly! Here's another fluff piece for you, and if you liked this one I have two other Sherlolly story-bits up on my page now. Also, it's up to your imagination why Moriarty wants the codes, and what the codes are for. TTFN!**

**P.S. It's slightly out of character for both Molly and Sherlock. I'm sorry. I tried. But you just can't top Moffat! :) **

_When a high-functioning psychopath is holding a gun to your head and threatening to pull the trigger, it is a most reasonable time for panic. But even as Molly Hooper finds herself in the same situation, there is one reassuring fact that keeps her panic at bay- Sherlock Holmes standing in front of her and Moriarty, his hands stretched out in calm control, reasoning with a madman._

Moriarty's arm muscles ripple around Molly's chest and shoulders while he shifts the cold steel pistol in his other hand to her temple.

"It's all up to you, Sherly-boy," he croons, pulling Molly tighter so he can rest his chin on her shoulder in a sickeningly endearing manner. "Give me the codes, and your little lab assistant won't have her brains blown halfway to heaven."

His breath smells of sharp peppermint, as if he had previously chewed on mint leafs. Molly closes her eyes and hopes that Sherlock will wear him down before tea-time.

"Listen, Moriarty," Sherlock says, shuffling a few steps forward.

"_NO_!" Moriarty yells, making both Molly and Sherlock flinch. _Stay calm_, she tells herself, her eyes still pinched shut. _Sherlock will fix this. He always_- "I'm _done_ with listening, Sherlock. And if you take one more step, I'll-" he pauses in his rant, and seemingly re-evaluates the scene. "No," he says, quietly, and with a flick of his arm casts aside the pistol. It skitters over the cement, past Sherlock's shoes, and falls fifty feet into the freezing water below.

Molly snaps her eyes open and stares at Sherlock intently, trying to read his facial expressions, but all she grasps is confusion.

"If you don't give me the codes..." Moriarty continues, enunciating slowly, half talking to himself. "Then I will throw your Molly Dearest into the river."

By now, Molly should know not to worry- Sherlock is a mastermind, excellent at persuasion, and even if she did happen to be tossed off the bridge she'd surely survive the fall.

But it isn't the long drop, or Moriarty's sadistic chuckle, or even the sight of Sherlock's creased brow that sends Molly into a panic- it's the solemn fact that Molly Margaret Hooper cannot swim.


	2. Going more

**Sorry this one's so short...**

Sherlock senses her rising wave of franticness in the way that her pupils dilate and breath comes in shallow lungfuls, catching at her throat. He can only deduce that Molly is either a kleptomaniac or can't swim- given the scenario he goes with the latter.

"All right!" His clear voice rings out over the dull roar of the rushing river below, and pulls a sparkling chain with an attached flash drive from around his neck and over his head. "They're yours."

He begins to advance towards a greedy Moriarty, holding out the chain tauntingly. "Hand Molly over, then then you get the codes."

Wry laughter comes from the psychopath, and he clenches a nauseous Molly to himself a few notches tighter. "Oh, Sherlock, _Sherlock, SHERLOCK_!" He cackles, growing progressively louder. "You really think I believe those are the real codes?"

"Then we are at a stalemate," Sherlock reasons, inching forward.

"Not remotely! You see, I still have your girl."

Sherlock is now only a yard away from the pair, close enough to see the desperation in Molly's eyes and the sheen of sweat on her forehead.

Still extending the USB, he steps forward again. "I guess you'll never know, will you." And in one swift motion he throws the codes past Moriarty's wide eyes and over the roped barricade.

Time slows down drastically.

The trio stares at the chain and flash drive, suspended over a fifty-foot drop, and something in Moriarty snaps.

Time speeds up.

With a wink and a manic grin, Moriarty pulls Molly with him backwards a few feet, and before Sherlock can react, steps off the bridge.

**DUN-DUN-DUUUUUUN! Haha just kidding. The next chapter's right ahead ;)**


	3. Gone!

She didn't even have time to scream, as she was much pre-occupied with plummeting. It's not the velocity at which they fall or even the small amount of time it takes that shocks Molly- it's the moment of impact.

She hits the surface of the icy-cold water with such force that her lab coat is ripped straight off her. Moriarty's arm still grips at her collarbone, and they both begin to sink under the churning rapids. Molly's lungs burn for oxygen, and the water is so cold that she feels the tingling numbness everywhere. _Focus. Focus! _

She lashes out blindly at her captor and her fist meets flesh- his grip loosens. After scratching at his arm another few precious seconds Moriarty finally lets go.

Molly squints, lungs screaming for air, and far above sees white rapids and a warm glow beyond the surface. She makes a few futile kicks and some half-hearted arm strokes, but she finds herself sinking faster, the light shrinking away rapidly and her world turning black.

The instant Moriarty disappears with Molly, Sherlock is on the move. He runs down the steps leading up to the bridge and gains speed as he sprints on the bank towards the spot where the two fell into the river. As he runs, he strips himself of his overcoat, scarf, shoes, and button-down vest. It takes someone of great talent to rid oneself of one's shoes while still maintaining a running pace, and Sherlock is that someone.

With a perfect jump he dives into the river, closest to where his calculations lead him, and with powerful strokes thrusts himself towards the bottom of the murky river. Sherlock opens his eyes part-way and tries to rely on his 20/20 vision to find Molly, but the cloudy water is too dark and algae-infused for him to make out anything. So he switches tactics, instead lashing out with his arms, searching for her with hands outstretched. Finally, just when he decides to go to the surface for another breath, his hand catches on something and he gropes around blindly until Molly's wrist is safe in his hand- then he pulls up, up, up, until he breaks the surface, gasping.

**So if this isn't weird to say, I think Sherlock would look pretty sexy swimming ;) Especially rescuing a water-logged damsel.**


	4. And back again

Molly is very pale and still in his arms, and he can't see any visible pulse. He swims with her into the shallows and lays her on the embankment next to his scattered clothing items. "Molly. Molly?" Gently he taps her cheek with one hand, and when that fails to elicit a response he checks her pulse.

Nothing.

Without hesitation he swoops his mouth above hers and breathes air into her lungs, once, twice. The heels of his hands pump at her chest, and again he seals his lips over hers. Seven, eight. Molly won't wake. Nine, ten, Sherlock alone again. Eleven, tw-

She gasps, gargles, sits up, and promptly vomits up old lake water all over Sherlock. He doesn't seem to mind, only wraps an arm around her shoulder to support her shaking frame.  
"Sherlock," she whispers, when her body has finished ridding itself of the offensive liquid, "Moriarty got away. And he probably found the codes-"

"Fake."

"Sorry, what?" Molly shoves her dripping hair from her forehead.

"I said they're fakes. Phonies. As an 'not the real codes'. Honestly, Molly," Sherlock sits back on his heels, "Do you think I'd have given him the actual copy?"

"You mean to tell me," Molly growled, furious despite her weak state, "That I chased a madman halfway across town, was taken hostage with a dangerous weapon, thrown off a hundred-foot bridge, drowned, and nearly _died_, all for some _fake codes_?!"

She looked so angry that Sherlock actually sputtered to try and clear his name. "No, ah- that is to say- it was really only an average fifty feet, and technically you were dragged, not-" he fairly snaps his mouth shut when he sees the look of outrage on Molly's face. After a moment of silence, Molly sighs and lays back on the soft grass of the sloping embankment.

Sherlock joins her with a huff, grabbing his long coat first and wrapping it around her shivering form.

"Thanks," she says, drawing it around herself. "I mean, for saving my life."

"Don't mention it," Sherlock breathes. The sound of distant sirens is somehow lulling to the two of them, and the lab assistant and great detective fall asleep right there, the sun peeking out to dry the great detective's socks.

**Yay for not-dead Molly! SERIOUSLY: IF YOU LIKE THIS STORY and even if you don't, go check out my all-new other two! Rainy-Day Snogging and Two on the Water are now posted! I've already gotten reviews, favorites, and even a PM- love you guys :) 3 BYE!**

**Special thanks to FaroreWorldshaper for the sweet PM's :D**


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